


Loki and His Pupil

by Lycianthara



Series: Loki and the Priest [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: God-rage, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Yelling, trans loki, trans protagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycianthara/pseuds/Lycianthara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning has ended, and he's stuck in the twilight zone just before the next phase. How does he deal with it? Well, he makes a deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loki and His Pupil

He stood there, under the dim lights of the bathroom, staring into his eternity. His eyes leaked tears and they raced across his cheeks as though for the greatest prize. He was bare to the world, but none of that mattered.

His cheeks retained their old fat; his chest remained swelled; and his hips remained wide. His waist caved in narrow like a corset, choking him with metaphor and presentation because that is all the world cares about for him and people like him. When you're body doesn't fit, you are Alien and Outcast, freak and fake, lying and in need of realignment, as though you're some sort of pipe in a rotten and rusted sewer. 

Staring into his eternity, and all he saw was mistakes, imperfections that needed correcting. Something had to change, him or himself, otherwise he just might die.

'Of age and under treatment', he thought, 'Is better than under age and without treatment.' Treating this ugly disease as it crawled its way from his loins into his bones into his brain and out through tears glass eyes seeing into eternity.

His fists shook with rage and frustration, desperation and fear. Rejected by so many how could he bare to live longer? How could he bare the weight of not passing, not looking like him, for any longer?

He wiped his face, hands still shaking, and walked from the room. The dim lighting shut off with the forceful push of a switch, the plastic old and moldy from neglect.

A hard and rickety bed awaited him, though it's sheets breathed and the coverlets and covers above those were soft and plush. The walls with their dull gray and subtle, almost scrubbed away, stains of smoke and blood from crimes long acquitted. He stood in this small room, with his bed and small dresser, with an even smaller closet he was oh so lucky to have. The one window sat above the bed, letting in the stark, harsh, and cold bitter winter wind. The heat did not work either way, so he did not bother to close it. 

Walking to his dresser, he pulled three things from his top drawer. A soft, cotton candy baby boy blue bra, a gift from friends whose names had assigned to the block feature the associated contact. They knew not that he was he, and instead gave him a gift for a she. But while treatment was slow and agonizing, he still needed to cheat, and lie, and fake, and cry, and beg his god to just let him live his life as his life.

So he dressed in the soft blue bra, and examined it on himself. It would do for today's play. The second item was dainty and conservative parents would say it was not there. But despite being a long abandoned parent, he was no conservative, and slipped the bright red pair onto his legs and up his thighs, resting on his ever narrow waist. It sat there, like a curse, but that did not matter so long as he acted well and lied to his audience. 

The third item, one thing he did like. A dress made of velvet with soft silk on the inside, colored emerald with a dark blue lining. He cherished the feel of it as it too slipped up his legs and thighs, instead coming to rest on his shoulders with two gentle tugs. Little blue threads with silver beads, decorated with wolves, danced through the chest as he clasped tight the front.

His hair had long since been cut short, but he took a comb and tamed it into a small up-do anyway. His feet took it upon themselves to find little slippers, like ballerina flats, and slip into them like he slid into the dress.

Now, he was done. He could go out and act his part and hoped the audience never noticed he was actually a man in a dress, who just looked a lot like a woman.

The day passed by, quick as an arrow or blade to the heart, and when he stumbled back into his little room with a bed and dresser and window and closet, he only wanted to sleep. But life, had other plans. A god, silent as the falling snow, and dressed to immeasurable lengths in gold embroidery with small, glittering emeralds, sat on his bed, waiting. 

"My dear, what have I told you about dressing as a woman? It is just not good for your wrinkles." He scowled at the god and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it to be more masculine. The slippers slithered off his feet and into the small area under the bed. The pretty blue threads with silver beads danced through hoops, harsh tugs tore straps off shoulders, and the dress fell to his feet. He stood near bare before the god.

"I am the God of Lies and Mischief little priest, I've always known your truths." The dress was flung at the gods face, hitting the target quite well. The god huffed, frustrated by him. 

"You can't keep denying me, little priest. You called for me, I answered. You know my name, say it."

He refused.

"Say it. Say my name."

The little blue bra and bright red pair flew off and he stood bare and raging, refusing.

"Say my name! You called for my help and I can give it! Say my name!"

"No!" He cried out. He cried out in his small and sobbing voice, the pitch higher than his age. "No," he cried, and fresh tears fell from his face.

He crumpled to the floor, sobbing and crying out with no reason or rhyme to what he screamed. Only the god answered him, following his descent.

"I know what you're feeling, if you would just-" He slapped the god across his cheeks.

"You know nothing, Loki God of Lies and Destroyer of New York. You destroyed the only shelter I ever knew, the only place willing to take me in and it's gone! Because of you! You know NOTHING!" He screamed through his tears at the god, his fists shaking from rage and frustration and fear.

"I am you. I am called flame-hair though you see it is black as jet. I am called Loki Laufeyson because my mother ran from her husband's war! I have mothered more gods than you can count! I know EXACTLY what you feel! Do Not DOUBT ME!" The god roared and the building shook, little bits of dust and mites floating through the air, disturbed.

He shook on the floor, crying.

"Fine, Loki the Liar. End my suffering and take this cancer I was born with, take it from me." 

The god shook his head, "No."

He paused before whispering, "You will learn my magic and my gifts. You will learn how to be yourself as you are. Let's begin now. I am Loki, and have no gender. Who are you?"

He huffed and glared at the floor.

"My name is Jay, and I'm a boy."

"Excellent."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first work here on the Archive, so if any of the organization is messy, let me know. This was originally for a contest on deviantArt, but I decided to move it here too. It's based around both Marvel Loki, but also my own experience worshiping and working with Loki as a god. Like, the one from the Eddas. So this is part Marvel, part Norsefic. I am an actual devotee of Loki, I've sworn oaths to him and such. If you have any questions about that, drop me a line. And if parts of the story don't make sense, please let me know! I'm very open to criticisms! Who knows, I may make this a series.


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